The Captain and the Cricketer

by Catherine Curzon

  George opened the fridge and began to pull out the contents. There was fresh ham and cheeses, chicken and pâté, golden butter and crisp green salad. Bright red tomatoes joined the pile of treats, along with plump strawberries and quiche from the fête. He threw the food onto a tray, adding plates and cutlery before telling Henry, “Grab the bread, Fitz, we can sit on the grass—”

  George paused before he spoke again.

  “You don’t want to sit on grass in that stunning suit. You can have the bench.” He looked Henry up and down, though there was no sense of judgment, only consideration. “Old buildings, Fitz, they take a hell of a lot of upkeep.”

  “It’s not just the house.” Henry put his hand around the cold glass of gin and tonic. “It’s the business.”

  George nodded, the casual mirth leaving his expression. “What’s going on, Fitz?”

  Henry took a large gulp of his drink, then passed the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “It’s nothing terrible, I don’t mean to whinge. I’m—maybe I’m too soft. I didn’t become a vet to turn away a sick animal just because the owner struggles to pay for treatment. I’ve got the wages for the nurses and the receptionists, and the surgery itself. I had the whole place refurbed a couple of years ago, after Dad retired—it’s so swanky now—but that cost a packet. And the thing is—I’d get by, I would, but now I’ve got to find the money to fight off bloody Belcher, just to keep a roof over my head!”

  “I’ve got a few bob I can lend you, don’t fret about that.” George reached out and patted Henry’s hand. “And none of it was stolen, before you start telling me what a rotten sort I am.”

  Henry dropped his gaze from George’s sparkling eyes.

  “I’m not here with a begging bowl, George. I really wouldn’t expect you to lend me money. How could I ask you for help, after I—? I shouldn’t need to ask anyone. I’m a Fitzwalter, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Our families go back centuries, Fitz, and for a time…” He shrugged, his smile nostalgic. “Well, you and I were as close as a Fitzwalter and a Standish-Brookes ever were. Water under the bridge and all that. Boys can’t be best friends forever, I suppose.”

  But I wanted to be. Henry took another slug of gin and attempted to ignore the ache inside him.

  “I’m sorry. Do you know that I am, actually, sorry? For losing my rag at you. But when that trophy vanished, what else was I supposed to think? You’d gone on and on and on about wanting to win it, and then I won it and—it just vanished. And I can’t undo any of it, how I behaved to you, how you must’ve felt in front of all those people, me accusing you like that, I—I know now that I was trying to push you away. I thought it’d make my life less complicated but all I did was end up lonely.”

  “I was very angry—bread, Fitz—because I was innocent. I am innocent.” George stepped out into the garden. “But then I got shipped out to Afghanistan and realized that the world is full of much bigger injustices than a cricket vase in Longley Parva.

  “And then I came back and the Daily Mail decided I was romancing a lady who is now a princess.” George pottered across the lawn and set the food down beside the pond, close enough for Henry to sit on the bench and still be part of the picnic. He began to unload the tray, adding, “Now I hang out on mountaintops and make TV shows that annoy very learned gents like you, but a lot of people enjoy them, so I can live with the critics.”

  Henry carefully sat, his undercarriage still radiating pain.

  “I’ve watched them all, your programs. I s’pose I can’t hate them that much!”

  “Bread?” George held out his hand and took the loaf from Henry, setting it on the tray before he dropped down to lounge on the grass, casting the towel aside. “Do you buy the books too?”

  Without looking at George, Henry nodded. “I don’t exactly go out of my way to avoid you.” His voice was quiet.

  George leaned back on the grass, propped on one elbow. His legs were crossed at the ankle and he looked over his shoulder, peering up at Henry from beneath those eyelashes.

  “Would you like me to sign them for you?” He smiled. “And would you like some very nice quiche?”

  “Yes to both.”

  His friend sat up and began assembling a mountainous selection of food on one of the plates, balancing each new item as though playing Jenga. Eventually he twisted his body to face Henry and, with great care, passed up the laden plate.

  “Please don’t drop this down that suit, or you’ll fall out with me again.” George similarly piled up his own supper. “I wonder if the Reverend and Squire F. ever sat out like this, boozing and eating and watching the ducks potter about…”

  “I’m certain of it. My dear, loving friend, as Bad Billy referred to the Rev. in his will.” Henry glanced away from George and forked some food into his mouth. “This quiche is good—a Mrs. Dalrymple special, I suspect. It’s like being at the cricket.”

  The evening was still warm and Henry laid down his fork and finally shrugged off his jacket. He laid it neatly over the bench and unfastened the bottom two buttons of his waistcoat. As he placed his hand flat over his stomach, his fingers twitching at the third button, he realized that George had been watching.

  “Go on, Fitz, live dangerously?” George lay back on the emerald grass and pillowed his hands behind his head. “My dear, loving friend.”

  Henry laughed awkwardly. “Do you think I should? What will the papers say? Wild scenes in Captain George’s cottage garden as local vet strips off!”

  But even as he laughed, Henry unbuttoned his waistcoat. His gaze didn’t leave George’s until he turned to drape his removed garment on the bench. Then Henry wondered why he had he stared at George like that. They were just two old friends eating dinner in a garden. Even if one of them had extremely handsome, long-lashed eyes.

  “What would it take to tempt you out of your tie, I wonder?” George reached over to the picnic and picked up the first thing he touched. He held it up for identification and said, “I’ll give you this ripe strawberry if you’ll take it off.”

  “A strawberry for my dignity!” Henry joked. “Go on, then.”

  He glanced at George, then looked down at his tie as he unknotted it, the silk rasping against his skin. He pulled it out from under his collar and dangled it on one finger.

  “Am I supposed to twirl it above my head as well?”

  “We’ll need more gin for that.” George sat up and held out the offering as though it were the most priceless treasure in the world. “Your strawberry, sir.”

  Henry chucked the tie aside and gratefully took the strawberry from George’s hand. Juice spurted onto his immaculate white shirt as soon as he bit into it.

  “Makes a change from baby vomit!” He laughed.

  George, however, was on his feet in an instant and bolting for the cottage with a cry of, “We’ll sort it, no need to panic!”

  Henry wasn’t panicking, and the fact that George had expected another eruption of temper was rather sobering. Still, he munched on the strawberry and watched the ducks performing their lazy laps of the pond until George re-emerged. He was carrying two more immense glasses of gin and tonic and slung over one shoulder was— What was it?

  “Here you go, old pal. Your G”—George handed Henry the drink, then took the T-shirt from his shoulder and held it out—“and a T of a different sort. Pop it on and I’ll get that shirt into the washer. Didn’t want you to huff off home all because of a rogue strawberry!”

  “Gosh. I haven’t comported myself very well, have I?”

  “Says the man who tried to brain me with a cricket bat?” He shrugged and nodded toward the T-shirt before teasing, “This shirt’s been to war and everything, Fitz. I chose you a properly butch one.”

  Henry saluted him, grinning. “Thanks, Captain George.”

  He got to his feet, untwisting his cufflinks. Then he turned his back and took off his shirt, embarrassed that his body was a shambles compared to George’s perfect, toned torso
. He pulled the T-shirt on over his head and tugged it down.

  “Can’t remember the last time I wore a T-shirt.” He grinned at George. The khaki didn’t go so badly with pinstripes. “You’ll have me swimming in the lake next!”

  “Sorry about the newts, but they didn’t seem to mind us splashing about for the first twenty years or so.” He took the shirt from Henry. “I’ll stick this in the washer. Pud?”

  “It did come as rather a surprise—especially as the post lady saw you. Erm—but yes, pudding would be delightful.”

  “Sit tight, I’ll be back!”

  “Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” But George had disappeared out of earshot, so Henry stretched out his legs and enjoyed the peace of the evening. He kicked off his brogues and wriggled his feet out of his socks. How pleasant the grass felt against his skin. Minutes passed before George returned once more, a plate in each hand.

  “The fête’s finest!” He handed one plate, piled with cakes and pastries, to Henry. Then George sat down to rest on the grass again, juggling his own laden plate as he went.

  “See, you look more relaxed already.”

  “Good grief, George—what a haul! Did you need a wheelbarrow to cart all this home?”

  “People sort of throw things at me,” George admitted bashfully. “And I take them because it’s rude not to, isn’t it? In London it’s not a problem, there are plenty of charities and places where you can pass the freebies along to people who need them, but here… Well, not many Longley Parvans are in need of charity.”

  Once again, the humble version of George hove into view. But Henry knew it wasn’t an act. It was the George he’d been friends with as a boy, generous and kind to a fault. It was the George that Henry had loved, the George he had pushed away. The George who was now offering charity to Henry. Pursing his lips, Henry shoved aside the proud, stuffy voice within him that would declare, ‘I don’t need anyone’s help, certainly not George’s.’ What good had any of that blustery nonsense done?

  “We’re very lucky here.” Henry closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun’s warmth on his face. “There’s the farms, and—dare I say it—Ed’s racing stables, the riding school and the odd tourist who pops through and patronizes our tearooms. Keeps people in a job. We Parvans have got a lot to be thankful for, really.”

  “And they’ve all forgiven me for not stealing the cup.” There was mirth in George’s voice. “I think it was squiring the now-princess Eleanor that did it.”

  Henry nearly choked on his mouthful of cheesecake. The day after Steph had finally given up and moved on to Ed, that photo had appeared in the newspapers. Everywhere.

  “How—how did that work out, George? I mean…did she marry the prince on a rebound from you? It all happened rather fast, didn’t it? Weren’t you upset?”

  George looked at Henry and narrowed his eyes as though sizing him up. He lifted a jam tart to his mouth, bit it and said, “The papers told you that we had a brief fling and remained friends. Don’t you believe them?”

  “Forgive me, George, but she didn’t really seem to be—your type.”

  Henry concentrated on jabbing his fork into a miniature lemon torte. This wasn’t an area he should be drifting into, he knew, but sitting here in George’s garden, wearing George’s T-shirt, he could do nothing else but plunge haphazardly on.

  “So…what is my type?”

  Henry felt a warm blush rise up to his face. His stomach lurched and he put down his fork. All that gin on an empty stomach.

  “Must I say, really? I was surprised, George, that you had been romantically linked to…”

  Henry looked George in the eye. He was accusing him again.

  But was he really? There’d been something in a gossipy celebrity magazine that he’d caught his receptionist reading once. Taken by telephoto lens, it showed George on location, shirtless of course, his arm around the waist of a soundman as they played about with his enormous boom microphone. And numerous times before George had gone off to the Army and Henry had left for vet school—a thousand small moments, glances, gazes. A brush of a hand, a press of the knee.

  “A younger girl?” George helpfully asked. “Only four years, no scandal there.”

  Henry dropped his chin to his chest. Then he was wrong.

  “No, I—it’s nothing, I only thought, gosh, George, with a woman? Sorry. You were in the Army and everything, I mean, how ridiculous of me to think—” To hope. “That you might be more interested in…well…chaps.”

  “Oh.” George’s full lips pursed and he reclined on the grass once more. “Chaps.”

  “You know what I mean…” Henry tugged at the hem of the T-shirt. It suddenly felt too tight. “Gay. I mean… Blimey, I haven’t offended you, have I? There’s nothing wrong at all with that. Nothing.”

  Unless you’re a village stalwart and you’re expected to put a woman in your manor house, and your father constantly jibed at you for not being man enough, and just to prove that you were, you went into a pen with a bull and got a horn in your belly for your trouble.

  “If I were gay, and I’m not saying that I am, would you still be my chum?” George looked up at Henry from his spot on the grass. “Although we’re not really chums now, are we? You like me now but tomorrow, without gin in you, you won’t.”

  Henry put aside his plate. “In my job, one of the most important things I do is earn the trust of my patients. It can take so long, and sometimes I never manage it, but you know—that trust can be lost in a moment.” Henry snapped his fingers. “Just one thing—a loud noise, a sudden movement, something which accidentally or unavoidably causes pain—and it’s gone.”

  He couldn’t look at George, at those big green eyes. Instead, he brought his knee up to his chest and watched his own bare toes as they gripped the edge of the bench.

  “And it’s the same with you, George. I’ve lost your trust. Shouting and carrying on like that, I know I have.” Henry looked up and saw something soft in George’s expression. “I’d do anything to win it back. I would. Name it, George, and I promise you, I won’t ever do anything to hurt you again.”

  “I didn’t steal that vase and I’m not a reckless nightmare,” George told him firmly, but there was a sadness in his tone too. “I was more proud than anybody when you smashed the batting record that day and I made a daft joke, but that’s all it was. I disappeared because I had to run home and get my knife so I could scratch onto the ball and now—well, even that got lost. What a rotten bloody day it was.”

  “Oh, George!” Henry held his hand over his mouth. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t. “Look, the cup’s lost and the ball’s lost, but—here’s us two, sat here together. Being civil to one another. Having—having a jolly nice time. And I—earlier, when I ran after you, yelling, even though you’d just rescued me from Ed… It’s probably best not to put much stock in the words of a man whose balls are on fire!”

  A giggle rose up inside Henry, but he pushed it down as there was something he needed to say.

  “And—George, if you’re gay, it’s—it’s a good thing. What do you think I was doing in Brighton, the day I saw your face on the side of a bus?” Henry took a deep breath. He’d never admitted it before to anyone, barely to himself. “It’d be very nice indeed not to be the only gay chap in Longley Parva, even if it’s just for a summer.”

  “Are you—” George blinked, his mouth opening and closing. “Well, I would never’ve guessed it, how marvelous! Are you all out and proud then? I always said you were too good for Steph, didn’t I?”

  “You did, and I should’ve listened, and no, I am very much not out, and not very proud either. Guess what I did in Brighton? Wandered about the prom in a linen suit, eating an ice cream. And I tried to get up the courage to go into a pub that had a big rainbow flag outside it, and I got one saucy raised eyebrow from a chap as I licked my ice cream—lucky ice-cream, he said—realized what it looked like I was doing to my Mr. Whippy, and dropped my Flake on the fl
oor. And came home.”

  “So is there a significant other hiding somewhere?” George pushed himself up from the grass and met Henry’s gaze. “I’d love to meet the chap who sets your heart aflutter.”

  Why was George so beautiful? It really wasn’t fair. Lucky bloody princess.

  “I’d love to meet him too!”

  “Come on, Fitz, a good-looking boy like you? Nicely dressed, well-spoken, fetching chums like me?” He knocked his fist against Henry’s shin. “We can find you a gent!”

  “That’s very kind of you, matchmaking like your ancestor Lady Georgina, but why would anyone want to go out with a curmudgeonly old fart like me?”

  “Aside from trying to brain me, you’re a fine catch.” George beamed. “I did wonder, you know. You got a bit misty-eyed when we went along to collect my reggies that day. I thought it was just the uniform because you and Steph—”

  So George was straight? Henry smiled at him. He could finally say it.

  “You looked gorgeous in that uniform!”

  “I look even better in it now, Fitz.” His friend laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me, instead of just…gazing?”

  “What sort of eighteen-year-old boy wants to hear that from his best friend? You’re gorgeous and I wish you’d pinion me to the wall and kiss me?” Henry laughed. What a relief, to finally admit it. How ridiculous to have held back for so long.

  “You never know, I might have done it.” George laughed, his head thrown back. What a nice thing to have a straight mate who is so accepting, Henry thought. Who didn’t seem bothered at all to have been the object of his affections.

  “That day, when I accused you of taking the cup… I was frightened of how I felt. Steph was there, and my father was there, and it all seemed so convenient. I could go out with her, and it would be fine, I could convince myself that I wouldn’t be wondering, every time she kissed me, every time we—you know—went to bed, what would this be like with a man? I don’t know how she put up with me. But that cup disappearing… I wanted to believe that you’d stolen it because I wanted to hate you. I wanted you to hate me. So bloody infantile. Because you didn’t steal it, did you? Oh, God, I’m such a fool!”